Soursobs. Bitter sobs?
Can you hear them crying?
I don't think so. Wrong name.
Defiant of lawnmowers, in cracks, under
stones conserving future colour
in summer-silent bulbs
till they can again thrust
though in the middle of winter
in the middle of human dread.
Told you had cancer and must
travel daily to hospital, they have
become millions. In spite of
uncertain surgeons in chill white
coats, sunshine-merrily they wave you along
the roadsides. Little "cheer-me ups". That
is what I call them.
Be brave, they said.
BY CONNIE FRAZER